Page 38 of Prince of Flowers
He flipped onto his stomach, kicking his legs in the air. “Talk to me, then. Tell me a story, oh summoner.”
I winced, annoyed each time he called me that, though the sarcastic edge of it seemed to be wearing away with every repetition. I didn’t want to snap back and snarkily call him an eidolon, which, yes, I’d done once or twice already. I didn’t think of the doves or the old wolf as servants, but friends. Why couldn’t I afford him the same courtesy? So I set my food down, stretched my legs out on my bedroll, and sighed.
“What do you want to hear, Sylvain?”
“Regale me.” He thrust his arms in the air, yawning, then leaned back onto the bedroll, his hands under his head. “Back in the Verdance, the courtiers would fall over each other, desperate to entertain. The jesters, too.”
I squinted at him. He’d said that on purpose. “No offense to jesters, Sylvain, but I’m not one of them.”
He opened one eye, winked. “I know. Too pretty to be a jester.”
I tucked the compliment away for later. The corner of my mouth quirked. I could try to find some way to amuse Sylvain, or I could let him talk about his favorite subject, get him to entertain himself.
“Jesters and courtiers,” I said, tucking my knees up to my chest. “It sounds like a fairytale, Sylvain.”
“It may as well be. There may be kernels of truth in the stories your people make up about us.”
He held his arm out, sweeping his hand across an unseen horizon, painting me a picture.
“The Court of Summer is a place where the sun shines just so during the day, where the weather is never too stifling nor too hot. And by night the breeze is soothing, the trees filled with the soft, lullaby chirping of birds and insects. A perpetual, perfect summer. And the fruit — oh, you’ve never tasted fruit so succulent, Locke. So ripe. Sweeter than sugar.”
Sylvain rolled on his side, elbow on the bedroll, chin in one hand as he smiled at me.
“Everything is sweeter in the Verdance.”
“Sounds lovely.” I chomped down on another bite of dinner, keeping my face busy so it wouldn’t betray how I felt. Seduced, for sure, and yes, a little horny.
“In fact, your Spire of Radiance reminds me of a similar location back home. There is a point in the Verdance where the four courts converge, perhaps the only place in all the realm where the rulers of the seasons can meet without ending up killing each other.”
“Then there’s conflict, even among the fae. Somehow I thought it would be gentler, a changing of the seasons sort of thing.” I leaned forward, more curious than judgmental, making sure I conveyed that with the evenness of my tone. “Not picking a fight, mind you. I’m genuinely interested.”
He held up one hand. “I said the Verdance was sweet. I never said it was perfect. Summer and Spring are the lighter aspects of the fae, the Seelie. And Unseelie is the name we give to the Courts of Autumn and Winter, the darker ones. But even light and dark are no guarantee of good and evil.”
I nodded as he spoke, appreciating the nonchalance of how he explained things. He wasn’t talking down to me, treating me like a young child who might have a harder time understanding. This was the real Sylvain, I realized, a man who could speak eloquently about his life and his passions. It was alluring, so very, very attractive.
“Spring brings life, you see, but the Spring Court is also famous for its talented poisoners, artists who specialize in designing only the most painful of deaths. Autumn has a reputation for sapping and brittling life, for heralding decay. Yet the Court of Autumn also excels at preservation. Pressing a leaf in the pages of a book writ large, the arts of healing, of extending life. Not as simple as light and dark, Locke. Never as easy as good or evil.”
I smiled, genuinely enjoying this side of him, so measured and composed. “I like how you put that. You’re much, much smarter than you let on, Sylvain. You must get some of that from your father. I don’t know very much about the fae, but I’ve heard that the King of Summer is famed for his wisdom.”
Sylvain nodded slowly. “The King of Summer is a good man. He rules with justice, metes it with a fair hand. Well, as fair as the fair folk can make it. But what of Baylor Wilde? I’ve heard his name mentioned once or twice. I sense you save no real fondness for your father.”
Gods, where to begin?
“You sensed correctly,” I said, sighing. “He was a stern man, and we didn’t get along very well. After my mother passed, everything really went downhill. Our fights escalated to the point where I couldn’t decide if his anger or disappointment hurt more. And one day he just disappeared. Too many rumors. That he was killed in a private duel, or that he vanished because of ritual magic gone wrong. And you know the worst part?”
Sylvain’s lips were loose, his mouth half open. I didn’t think he’d be so interested in hearing about my father, of all things.
“I feel guilty for being grateful that he went away.”
That was something I’d never truly confessed to anyone, that I’d barely expressed to even Bruna and Namirah. Something about Sylvain made him the right person to tell. Maybe it was the awareness that he didn’t know the same people that I did, not even the same world. It felt like he wouldn’t judge me despite his entire personality pointing to the contrary. From the way he pressed his lips into a sympathetic line, how he nodded in silent understanding, I knew I was right, too.
“At least he left his inheritance,” I said, chuckling bitterly. “Once we finish here and acquire my Crest, I can breathe a little easier. Pay what I owe for lodgings at the Wispwood, maybe even find somewhere new to stay. It must be nice for you, being royalty, how you obviously don’t have that problem yourself.”
Sylvain grunted, scratched his fingernail along a random spot on his thigh. “Right.”
“Though I really do like it at the Wispwood. Meeting Bruna and Namirah, learning about summoning and nature and flowers. And rafflesias. You know, Sylvain, you’re so good at conjuring nature. You’re really kind of a summoner in your own way. Why not just conjure a rafflesia?”
He picked at a blade of grass, flicking it gently back and forth with the tip of his finger.
